


Goodbye Ideal

by ThePipeSmokingCat



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Historical References, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:20:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24444979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePipeSmokingCat/pseuds/ThePipeSmokingCat
Summary: In 1986, Wang Yao kissed a man.“Fuck.” He cursed, dry flames swirling on his tongue, “Motherfucker.”
Relationships: China/Russia (Hetalia)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [再见理想](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/626524) by 俞子酱. 



> Origional work in Chinese by 俞子酱, translation by ThePipeSmokingCat

In 1986, Wang Yao kissed a man.

A great many things happened that year. Deng Xiaoping was featured on the covers of Times Magazine; the USSR successfully launched the space station “Mir”; the United States began bombing Libya; the Hong Kong based rock band _Beyond_ released their first album called _Goodbye Ideal_. Wang Yao was twenty-one then, and the only notable thing he achieved was making out with another man.

“Fuck.” He cursed, dry flames swirling on his tongue, “Motherfucker.”

Those were the times when the “Study of Success” first gripped the Chinese psyche; the streets were filled with a spring breeze that stank of gold. Those who went southward[1] capitalized on the free market, leaving behind their ancestral land’s barren farms and shortsighted, conservative countrymen. Political turmoil, revolutions, and bloodshed filled the headlines both in China and beyond. Virtue fused with vice; clenched teeth bit out tears of excitement. Hysterical laughter unveiled disenchantment. It was as if everyone lived in a play.

“Such are the affairs in the country today. What’s it like abroad?” Asked Wang Yao.

“The world’s gone mad.” Answered Ivan Braginski, “But since everyone is crazy together, it doesn’t seem that way.”

“Even the Soviet Union?”

“Even the Soviet Union.” 

Ivan was an anomaly in the cast and crew. Sino-Soviet relations had been crumbling for a few decades, so it seemed rather politically incorrect for a Soviet to be involved in the television production. But politics is softer than the human heart, and about as fickle as one. Even the American imperialists could now collaborate in filming, so why couldn’t a Soviet Revisionist?[2] And Ivan spoke Chinese. He drank Baijiu and lined up for food stamps like everyone else. He would play but a minor role. If a Soviet could not play a Soviet, who could? Moreover, the screenplay was dedicated to a certain great leader, in honor of his supposedly indubitable youth— Who would question his indubitable youth?

Thus, matters were settled. The cast and crew for _“Ideal”_ were created overnight, and that was a reasonable course of action.

At that time, Wang Yao was but a junior in the Beijing Film Academy. He was twenty, with a body that sat on the edge between adolescence and adulthood, like an upright birch on a spring day. Despite the sharp grit outlined by the young man’s brows and eyes, the soft curves of his nose and mouth swapped aggressiveness for a gentle clarity. It was a rare set of features that grew founder the longer one beheld it. When he followed the director into the filming booth with his green military costume, smiling at everyone so shyly yet with so much expectation, Wang Yao resembled a mirror filled to the brim with sunlight.

  
Wang Yao was young, emotionally savvy, and without the arrogance that typically accompanied artists. No one in the cast disliked him; everyone went out of their way to look after him. And he posed a jarring contrast to Ivan. Even though Ivan was always smiling, with “Workers of the World, Unite!”[3] written all over his face, who knew what he actually thought? What had he eaten? What had he done? Whose mother was he cursing in his head all along? Therefore, aside from the director, no one dared to speak with Ivan _. “Unless they are one of us, they are bound to have misaligned interests.”_ That was what the ancestors from antiquity passed down as principle.

Yet principles were one thing, and practicality was another. When Ivan’s face entered the frame, everyone still fell into silence with awe. His face was made for the camera and for stardom. It was an emblem from afar, a marble statue. Yet from up close he was the most alive, in blood and flesh, teary light glistening with each blink, sorrowful mistreatment in every gaze, cruelty within such captivating refinement. The female lead perched on the tip of her toes, face hot enough for flowers to blossom in winter. The director curled up on his bench, eyes disappearing as a happy line behind his smile, “Beautiful, quite good indeed.”

And Li Qingqing was born to have the face of a leading actress. Those kinds of faces were not only striking, but also domineering, as if always unsated. Li Qingqing’s face made people feel wasteful for not giving her a leading role. A woman like her stood out starkly from the crowd, with hands and feet like white sugar, radiating a cold, plant-like melancholy when on screen, slowly seeping into a man’s bones. But she froze when facing Ivan for the first time. She could not help but to overanalyze every fine crease on the man’s countenance, tracing the object of his gaze. Anyone, no matter what gender, would dangle a red flag of consciousness the moment they saw themselves as a subject of examination, swaying between arrogance and self-deprecation. That was Li Qingqing then. She could not comprehend how it was possible for the universe to contain so cold a pair of indigo eyes, and how they would so stubbornly refuse to reflect her image.

  
In the whole cast, Wang Yao was twenty; Ivan was also twenty. Yet Ivan’s background made people ignore his age. He became “that Soviet”. Their understanding of Ivan was not from direct communication, but rather from outlandish and naïve fantasies: are all Soviets so tall? Why aren’t his eyes blue? Will Soviet women get fat after marriage? Are all of their men drunkards? Amidst all the reveries, Li Qingqing enjoyed absolute authority, for she was the only one who was close enough to Ivan to stare deeply into his eyes on screen.

“If it were up to me,” Li Qingqing says as she bit her chopsticks, “Soviets, must all be romantics.” And no one dared to follow up with anything after that. Everyone stared at her with a mix of admiration and jealousy. Li Qingqing swayed her two braids, proud and unapologetic, stood up and announced her departure with arrogant, sweet prejudice in every fall of her steps.

-

Wang Yao sat beneath a dusk with low hanging clouds, a rare golden ray of the sun’s last light above his head.

  
  


He shouldn’t have interacted with Ivan outside of the filming. Yet all the stories— all the stories with the worst intentions— ambushed him on the most ordinary day. The sun was just rising, and the air was saturated with a rust-scented mist. Wang Yao just returned from the running tracks in the early morning when he saw Ivan standing in the courtyard of the dormitory, with toothbrush and metal cup in hand.

“Of course, even Soviets must brush their teeth,” thought Wang Yao. He planned to cut across from the side, but suddenly saw a streak of red running across alabaster that stopped him in his tracks.

“Comrade,” he doesn’t understand why he would use that word, “your nose is bleeding.”

“Really?” Ivan turned his head, quickly wiping his nose with the back of his hand, “And you are right. Fuck, I must have eaten too much spice.”

Such a vulgar yet familiar tone broke Wang Yao’s defenses. Of course, no matter Chinese or Soviet, all people eat, drink, piss, shit, and sleep with the same authenticity. The imaginations that saw him as ice-skinned and jade-boned and an untouchable flower atop of high mountains were mere fanciful, illusive lies. This realization made Wang Yao very happy, “Do you like spicy food?”

“No. But what can I do? You people have steel for stomachs, and you require every person who eats your dish to also have a steel stomach. That’s really not Socialist at all.”

“Ha! Okay then,” Wang Yao enjoyed seeing Ivan pretending to be wronged, like everyone else. “I shall treat you to dinner tonight with something not spicy, alright?”

“Only if you bring alcohol. I enjoy drinking.”  
  


“Of course.”

The principle that Wang Yao held in his dealings with people is to be natural. He never forced relationships with dissimilar interests, but he caught unto those formed over common bonds like hunting a rabbit. After work that day, Yao and Ivan ordered simple braised pork, meatballs, and vegetables at a state-run restaurant[4]. After three cups of liquor, Ivan signed with his head tilted to the sky: “Yao, you remind me of my homeland.”

Wang Yao laughed, “Why are you only telling me this now?”

“I should have told you earlier. You make people content, bright, as if there is a steady purpose to a human life. But that’s obvious, anyone could see it, so I didn’t say.”

“How lofty of you.”

“Is that so? I don’t agree. I don’t want to say useless words— I don’t want to be someone who pretends to be of value. I want people to treat me with seriousness and a direct gaze. That’s basic human rights.”

“You are rare; that’s enough. And you have a good face, makes women like you.”

  
“You really think so?” Ivan lowered his head, blinking his eyes at Wang Yao a few times, “But that is what God gave me, and not what I earned. This God fellow, not a nice comrade sometimes.”

It is normal for words to be carelessly tossed around after drinking, yet Ivan did not seem drunk, as if the bottle of Baijiu went not to his belly but his shirt pocket. His strange eyes reflected an eerie light against the glass, obviously reserved, as if he successfully put himself in a comfortable spot for both attack and retreat. For some reason, Wang Yao felt extremely displeased at that.  
  
“Why did you come to China?” Wang Yao took another sip of the hard liquor, hoping it would strengthen his courage, “Don’t Soviets love their motherland?”

Under normal circumstances, he would never utter such jarring words. But Wang Yao wanted to provoke Ivan. He yearned to see Ivan rip the niceness off his face, red and angry and glistening. He was utterly fed up with Ivan’s frigid and sleek attitude, treating him as if he was just another one of those who could never understand him.

  
Ivan suddenly darkened his face, continence as somber as the night. He straightened his posture, turning his gaze towards the gloomy sky.

“I came from America,” he said with a low voice, soft and without inflection. “I spent three months in America, then I arrived to China. The Soviet Union is not as locked up as you people imagine it to be. It is busy, tired, so tired that it has no time to take care of everyone.”

Wang Yao did not reply.

“You know what I saw in America? I saw hot air balloons, saw dreams and naked lies. I saw a world beyond comprehension. I felt cheated for the previous twenty years of my life, and I was so fucking proud of it. I wept hot tears serenading my own slave driver. Is there anyone more stupid than me in this world?

I met a Frenchman at a bar in America. He asked me what is freedom? He said women are freedom, and you people are robbed of this freedom. I understood a lot from what he left unsaid. What is vision? America is vision. We are robbed of this vision. No one wanted to admit it. It’s so fucking depressing and hurtful. But you have to admit it. You have to slap yourself awake on the empty boulevard. You have to tear apart everything you honored, you loved, you found purpose in. It hurts so much.”

  
Ivan said all of this, then he took another gulp of the baijiu.

“You people will eventually see it too. You will see truth rolling towards you like an avalanche, and you can’t run and you can’t hide, and you will be forced to experience the despair like I did. This day will come soon, Wang Yao.”

Wang Yao fell silent. He did not imagine the night would turn out like this. “It’s too dark now, go back,” Ivan said. Wang Yao nodded in agreement. They saw the gradually darkening road ahead, no light besides the scarlet lanterns in front of the state-owned restaurant’s door, so faint it confused him. “I am sorry, Yao.” Wang Yao did not hear it clearly; he always loathed these superficial and vacant things. He saw the ragged patches of destitution on the road, and he was bored by them. He felt a soundless breeze stirring in his heart, originating from “the Soviet” walking by his side. But Ivan can no longer be pressed back into the pale, flat caricature.

Wang Yao began to feel regret. His regret lifted higher and higher with enduring vigor in the dark of the night.

[1] “南下者”, referring to those who migrated for business opportunities in experimental free trade cities (such as Shenzhen) that are mostly located in Southern China during Deng Xiaoping’s “Reform and Opening up” program, which eventually resulted in China’s economic miracle

[2] “Soviet Revisionist”, or “苏修”, is a derogatory slang for people from the USSR after the Sino-Soviet split, when the USSR was seen in China as a new force of foreign imperialism

[3] Marxist slogan found in The Worker’s Union by Flora Tristan

[4] State-run restaurants (“国营餐厅“), a special treat for dinning before private restaurant businesses became popular in China


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update-- I was lost in fourier transforms and algorithms for the better half of the past year. Hoping for more regular postings from now on. 
> 
> All credits go to the original writer in Chinese.

The word “bastard”, or “liumang” in Chinese, was originally coined to describe those who lost their motherland, national home, or spiritual Eden. It differs from its phenetic reverse, “mangliu”, referring to those who drifted from the countryside to the city. While the background of “mangliu” is purely economical, “liumang” deals with all areas of politics, economics, culture, and ethnicity. For a long time, Wang Yao saw Ivan as a bastard. This is entirely unreasonable, yet one’s view of another is rarely based on reason. The cameras in the filming booth rolled their lenses turn by turn, while the story in the film tapes spun around the seasons. Wang Yao’s “mirror-like” heart was a pot of boiling water, ceaselessly calling for the steamed-stifling, sultry summer day.

Humans are strange creatures. The more someone is challenged, the more they crave to pin down the provocateur on the pavement for a thorough beating. Wang Yao and Ivan still frequently drank with each other. They still schemed to pin down each other’s prejudice over the dinner table, to subdue the insurgent under his own ideological camp of boundless glory. But Ivan did not fall for any of it: “I do not give a shit what you think of me.” He rolled the empty wine bottle on the table, “I am only telling you what I think. I only say these things to you.”

And what was that behavior other than being a bastard?

For the purpose of appeasement, they would also occasionally discuss gentler topics such as acting, plays, and women. “My first love was a girl who ran very fast,” Wang Yao had a bit too much to drink, and he began to shout as he spoke. “I loved her because of how she ran. I fell in love with the way her braids bounced as she sprinted. Isn’t it hilarious?”

“What is so funny about that? Even as an adult, you can still easily fall in love with a woman because of her beauty or strength or fragility. That is a permanent fixture of humanity.”

“Shit, you say that as if you are Cupid himself!”

“My grandfather once told me that to win the heart of women, it is not enough to be a gentleman. You have to drink and talk with her.” Ivan began to laugh, “Alcohol is quite strange. After you drink enough of it, you will begin to love the one who drinks with you.”

It was a strange thing to say in the occasion. Ivan felt the awkwardness immediately after speaking, and Wang Yao was even more embarrassed. One misplaced sentence put the two lonely bachelors under extreme self-consciousness.

“That… That was not what I meant.”

“I understand.” Wang Yao quickly waved his hands, “I am not that grossed out.”

“Good, good then.” Iven let out a visible breath of relief. It was the first time that he appeared so vulnerable and unsure, which delighted Wang Yao, almost as if he personally captured a strategic stronghold in battle.

The crew was to leave for Shanghai, to capture verdant scenes under parasol trees. The last extended shoot in Beijing was of Ivan turning his head beneath the crimson and marble arches, gazing brightly at the horizon. _“Like a lifetime’s most perfect and impossible mirage”_ is what the script wrote, which Ivan captured precisely. “Wonderful!” The director shouted, “Beautiful, lovely indeed!”

With that, they left Beijing.

-

Wang Yao’s scenes increased in Shanghai, yet his biggest problem was his utter lack of chemistry with Li Qingqing. “You look made for each other. Yet it feels like you two are wardmates, the kind that got locked up together for twenty years!” The director slapped his leg with the rolled-up script, “You need the air of romance! The burning spirit of a revolutionary age, understood?”

Li Qingqing wore a pressed white button-down with a navy skirt. She brushed the ground again and again with the tip of her feet.

Seeing no reaction from her, the director turned his attention to Wang Yao: “Wang! Have you ever dated before?”

“What?” Wang Yao froze for a second, “Director, sir! I… I have not!”

“Then go now, you two! Ride the bike around town a few times, bond a little! Scram!”

“Oh… Okay…”

“Are you dense? The bike is so you can carry the girl. Are you planning to run while she rides it by herself?”

“Oh… Apologies, director!’

Seeing their outlines awkwardly twisting away on the bike, the crowd burst into a prolonged laughter. They were all around twenty years old, donning pressed shirts, jeans, and sleeves rolled to the shoulder, youthful tenderness in their faces and the sky behind. Though the laughter slowly diminished, it seemed to echo on, etched twenty more years in time.

As the bike wheels pressed past pebbled paths, Wang Yao felt the difficulty of his task. He was a bit afraid of the hooks in Li Qingqing’s eyes. He even considered what Ivan might do under the same circumstance. As he was lost in thought, the peddling grew slower and the wind blew gentler. He almost began to feel the aura of romance.

“Don’t take it personally.” Li Qingqing suddenly spoke behind his back, “I don’t dislike you, Wang Yao, but I loathe the story and the character you play.”

“Eh?” Wang Yao turned his head in confusion. The parasol trees cast see-through shadows on her face. Her lashes trembled like dragonfly wings; her two braids danced in the wind.

“The man you play, he lacks courage to confess his love when he was young. And when he becomes old and successful, he returns to patronize her! Don’t you think he is shameless?”

“I don’t think he was patronizing… He just felt that she’s changed, grew older.”

“And I precisely hate this Pavel Korchagin sort of self-satisfaction!” Li Qingqing suddenly rose her voice, “She’s changed, so did you not change? Why do men always blame their uselessness on women? Why do you angst over a woman’s natural changes like she was supposed to be some symbol and not a person?”

“Alright, alright.” Wang Yao grimaced, “You speak with reason.”

“In contrast, Ivan’s character Alyosha is a whole lot better.” She dodged a low hanging branch, plucking out some leaves, “If he loves, he loves; if he no longer loves, he stops loving. Soviets seem to always live their days into fire, into light, with passion at the center of it all. No formalism. Don’t you think so?”

“I know you are quite into Ivan. But you took the job, so we have to keep acting together.” Wang Yao said, “I will try to make the character more likable, what do you say?”

“You are a good person.” Li Qingqing raised her chin, a warm scent of soap surrounding her. “Sadly, you are not my type. I like men who are rude, who take what they want without the pleasantries.”

“Ha! You think he is that kind of person?”  
  


“Who? Ivan?”

“Who else?”

“You are a strange one. You turn into a different person when talking about him.” Li Qingqing said, “Ivan is a good man, but I feel he is very far away from me. I am not who he wants.”

“You can approach him first.”

“No, that is not what I meant.” She lowered her eyes again, “Loving alone is like punching the air. Nothing could drain and bore me more.” She looked up to the sky, gaze cool as an autumn pond, “I don’t do useless things like that.”

_This woman is living with too much clarity_. Wang Yao thought. _That might not be a good thing._

The wheels came to a stop, and spun again with a push on the pedal. A dusk sun sank beneath the dales of the mountain. The air cooled down; dragonflies scattered.

-

Ivan had a lot of free time on his hand during this period. He spent it by strolling in universities and libraries. At night, they would light candles in soccer fields to host dances and poetry readings. Ivan would sneak in to debate philosophy, music, and contemporary art with the students there. Their voices are like sea tide, young, muffled, full of hope and nostalgia. Their bright black eyes stood starkly in the dark. Flickering candlelight reflected on their gazes to form a shimmering river. Ivan’s anxiety was uncontrollable. The unity of the students only made the foreigner lonelier. He even heard people humming Soviet songs from the fifties. Songs of a failed state urging for surrender.

The topic of “homeland” is a bottomless pit—endlessly bitter and filled with brokenness once examined under clearer light. Ivan sat at the edge of the lawn, lost at another country’s thriving modernization. Searching for the Soviet Union in China was itself a mistake. No matter what they said about “USSR’s today is our tomorrow”, they did not hold it to be true. Since no one was telling the truth to begin with, there was no point of asking who betrayed whom. He sat until the crowd dispersed, shadow stretched out long and thin by the dying light.


End file.
